


For Certain Degrees Of Error

by hallowgirl



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/F, Femslash, First Kiss, Foe Yay, From friends to lovers, Opposites Attract, Pre-Femslash, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, everyone can see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowgirl/pseuds/hallowgirl
Summary: "The first bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room, is the fact you have to be the first one to notice things." 

 
There are seven bad things about being Penelope Bunce. Agatha Wellbelove can remind you of all of them. Pegatha.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was inspired by the scene in Carry On where Agatha and Penelope share a bed at Penelope's house. Little Pegatha plotbunny started hopping around during a night of insomnia and this is what I ended up writing sometime at dawn after a night of not sleeping. Hope you enjoy!:)  
> I also take [fanfiction commissions](http://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/post/148008226239/fanfic-commissions) on my Tumblr (it's a mostly lolitics Tumblr, but I do fics for many different fandoms), so check that out if you're interested.  
> And leave a comment if you like it!

The first bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room, is the fact you have to be the first one to notice things.

"I'm glad you and Simon aren't dating anymore" you say, looking at the ceiling. (Agatha talks more when you look at the ceiling. Every time you look at her, she either finds an excuse to look away or looks like you're about to hit her. You think there's a reason she's the world's worst snitch.)

There's a silence, while you wait in the warm dark for her voice to sound injured or her foot to kick yours' or for her to just say _I don't want to talk about this, Penny_ and turn over and go to sleep and leave you to middle-of-the-night boredom, and then she says "So am I."

 

*

 

The second bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room, is the fact you have been described, more often than you like to remember, as too curious for your own good.

(Though sometimes you look at the nobly-sacrificing-oneself, I-hate-being-the-chosen-one chosen one you call your best friend and think about pointing at him and saying to them all _Wonder why?)_

"Why?"

There's a silence and now you wait for the kick.

Maybe warm dark and silence works on Wellbelove genes but it's another moment before Agatha's voice creeps out around the words "Because it was like everyone else wanted us to fit together and we didn't."

(You wonder suddenly what works on Wellbelove genes.)

(You could probably ask your dad if it weren't such a deeply weird question.)

You lie there, heart suddenly thudding, because it's what you've thought all along, and being proved right is usually a lot better than this.

(Also, it sounds like the sort of horrendously stupid line that someone would trot out in one of those romantic movies, and you have the odd thought that Agatha would probably like those movies.)

(You then have another, odder thought that those lines are beneath Agatha.)

There's still a silence and you're about to ask something else, though you're not sure what yet, when you hear an odd, snuffling sound, damp, warm breaths at the end of the bed.

Oh.

 

*

 

The third bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room, is that when confronted with a situation that seems to defy an intellectual solution, sometimes, you may flounder a little.

"Ah-" You open your mouth and then lie there, staring up at the ceiling, mouthing like a fish, or like Simon when Baz is trying to don the cape of his worst enemy and they're both pretending it fits.

(You've noticed. Of course you've noticed. That falls under the first bad thing about being Penelope Bunce, etc.)

Agatha's still snuffling and you would hand her a tissue but there's none in reach and somehow, you get the sense that getting up and walking out of the room in search of one may not fall under behaviour of a good roommate.

(Though you think you deserve to be cut some slack, after the endless patience you show that irritating _pixie_ at Watford.)

So instead, you work your hand out from under the duvet and then you pat your way down the mattress awkwardly. You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling and wish you had a whiteboard and pen to work your way through this until you find Agatha's hand and give it a little awkward squeeze.

She goes still for a moment, and then, while you're debating snatching your hand back and pretending you had a cramp or you thought you felt a hole opening up around you or something more worthy of your intellect (because, really, what on _earth_ are those?), her fingers wrap around your hand and squeeze back.

Her hand's warm and soft and even after her snuffling's died away, you're still lying there, holding hands.

It's not as though it's unpleasant, so you don't know why you keep noticing it.

But as the second bad thing about being Penelope Bunce, etc. dictates, you're curious.

So you ask. "Why are you crying?"

She's silent for a moment.

"Agatha?"

Her name feels good in your mouth. You hadn't noticed before. Sharp and right, like it's just the right shape for you to call.

She's silent and then suddenly she's sitting up, peering at you. Her hair's messy and falls around her shoulders in rumpled blonde waves and you have the thought that you like it better like this than the way it is every day at Watford, like some sort of waterfall of sunshine that's vomited itself over her head.

Her eyes peer at you, big and blue, and she says "Do you ever think about what's going to happen after Watford?"

 

*

 

The fourth bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room, is that you can end up being given information you didn't necessarily want to hear.

(Which can be particularly irking when you didn't realise it wasn't information you wanted until now.)

"I've never thought about being a Normal" you say, even though this conversation's not about you. "Or, you know, living as one."

Agatha shrugs, and you touch her sleeve. Somehow, you've ended up scooting down the bed to sit cross-legged next to her and you catch yourself thinking all over again that somehow it just fits that Agatha would wear some fancy nightie like that.

Not that you don't like it. In fact, with the rumpled blonde hair and big blue eyes and everything, it suits her.

"That's the difference" she says, and her voice is like a ghost between you. (If you closed your eyes, she could be a Visiting.) "It's all I think about."

You shake your head because how could _anyone_ want to leave Watford, and the world around Watford, the magickal world, _your_ world, but then-

Then there's a crease in Agatha's brow and her face twists and crumples a little and somehow that twists tightly in your chest, a little crumpled knot that could make your own eyes burn a little.

_(Could._ Not _does.)_

"Watford isn't for me" she says, and then she scrubs a hand across her eyes, fiercely, childishly, and your own hand twitches, wanting to do it for her. "No one needs me there."

"Simon-"

"Simon needs to be a hero. He doesn't need to get the girl."

You think that's true, actually.

"Weren't you the one saying you were glad we broke up?"

You might be Penelope Bunce, the smartest person in the room, but Agatha Wellbelove isn't as far behind you as you think.

"No one needs me" she says, and her eyes wander into the darkest depths of your room, scooting around sadly, as though trying to find any distraction at all, and you open your mouth, throat filling with names and friends and entreaties, and all that comes out is

"I'd miss you."

Agatha stills, and then turns to look at you sharply.

You think you might do something close to blushing.

That in itself is awful.

But you would miss Agatha, you realise suddenly, and not just in the way you'll miss Watford when you leave. And not just in the she-was-there, a-part-of-things way you'd have expected to say it.

(If you'd ever thought about this before now.)

You're about to tell her all of this, but your fingers are curling around her sleeve and somehow that scatters your words a little.

(The skin of her arms is soft when you brush it. So soft, you almost want to go back and trace it again, to check it's real.)

(Just curiosity, of course.)

 

*

 

The fifth bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room, is that you know how to adapt to situations too easily.

It shouldn't feel this easy to be lying on your bed, feet on your pillow, head on the spare one you found for Agatha, with your forehead coming dangerously close to brushing her cheek

(you try not to think about why it's dangerously)

with your hand occasionally catching at her sleeve and both of you pretending not to notice, and breathing in something that could be her shampoo and could be her perfume but is too warm, too basic and drawing you in, and so is more likely just _her._

"Do you love Micah?" she asks you and you say yes, and then she asks "How do you know?"

You open your mouth and then shrug. You didn't have a moment with Micah where everything struck you at once, where your world turned upside down, where all the songs made sense. You just knew, gradually, and then a little more suddenly. You loved him and you love talking to him.

"See, I thought I loved Simon" she says and she twirls a piece of hair around her finger distractedly. It brushes yours' as it drifts down. "I _do_ love Simon. Just not in the way people need me to."

Your finger brushes that strand of hair once, then again. Then again. It could make its' way in if it wanted, curl her hair gently around your finger. Her hair's soft and warm and smells sweet, like the rest of her.

"That's all people need" she says and there's a catch in her voice and because you don't want her to start crying again, you say "It's not what I need."

There's a silence, then Agatha turns her head to look at you. Her blue eyes are bigger than ever in the dark, and very blue in the occasional flicker from the streetlights outside your room.

"What do you need, then?"

You swallow and your mouth shouldn't be so dry.

When you speak, the words come out a little unsure. "For you to be Agatha Wellbelove, not what everyone else wants."

She laughs, short and sharp, and the sound doesn't suit Agatha. "Aren't I good at being what everyone else wants, then?"

"No."

Agatha laughs again, but softer this time.

"You're Agatha." Your fingers curl around her palm again before you realise and then you do realise, and you take a deep breath before you let them curl around her hand once more.

It seems to take an eternity before she squeezes back, and your chin is just brushing her nightied shoulder.

 

*

 

The sixth bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room, is that you have a certain fondness for experimenting with the limits.

It was Agatha who asked if you'd ever kissed anyone but Micah and so you asked if she'd ever kissed anyone but Simon.

"Does it bother you?" she asks, looking up at you from under her tangled blonde hair. "Knowing that everyone presumes you'll marry him?"

You'd thought for a moment and then said "I don't know."

(Until that moment, you'd have said "No" without thinking.)

You don't need to ask Agatha the question. You already know the answer.

You think maybe she does, too, when she asks her next question.

(You're surprised that it's Agatha who asks. Not that she doesn't have a right to-and on second thoughts, she's probably heard about that flaming pixie.)

(It's just that if you'd ever imagined this-)

(which you _hadn't,_ let's be clear)

(-you'd have thought you'd be the one to ask.)

You don't know what you're going to say until you've said it and you find the time to marvel at how her eyes hold yours', wide and stubborn and something a little like scared, a little like frantic in her blue depths, before you say it.

(When you hear the _yes_ come out, you at first don't believe its' yours.)

You both tilt your heads the wrong way at first and both laugh a few seconds too late.

You both almost bump noses and adjust yourselves at the last second.

You both fumble with your hands at the air and then awkwardly fold your fingers over each other's shoulders.

You tell yourself it's the same as kissing a boy because you're not stupid enough to think there's anything wrong with kissing a girl and if you did, you'd have got rid of that pixie eons ago, and why are you thinking about that stupid pixie now, and God, Agatha smells lovely, she must use lotion or something like that on her skin, and her hand's soft where it's come up to hold your chin-

And then your mouths are touching and you suppose this is kissing her, only you seem to have forgotten a lot of things very suddenly, because you're kissing her.

Your mouths are awkward together, but they move softly and nicely, and it makes you feel as if something's melting inside your chest, something dissolving when your hand creeps into Agatha's hair without you thinking about it and when your heart is suddenly so rapid it tingles in your chest, like the little surprised sound Agatha makes in her throat that's suddenly the sweetest sound there is and you want more of it.

The warm insides of her mouth and the softness of her lips and her hand, stroking your cheek-

You want more of it.

And for once, Agatha seems to be on the same wavelength as you, because she opens her mouth against yours' gently and gives you more.

And then you realise experimenting may not count as a bad thing about being Penelope Bunce.

Oh.

 

*

 

The seventh bad thing about being Penelope Bunce and therefore, more often than not, the smartest person in the room is that you don't often have to admit you're wrong.

Which might seem like a good thing to you any other time, but right now, doesn't.

Agatha's drifted off next to you. Her hair's tickling your cheek, but you don't want to brush it away. Her arm's half over your stomach and you like the warm weight of it. You can count her eyelashes when you let your eyes skim over her face.

(You're getting as soppy as that stupid pixie.)

You lie there, watching her and tasting her strawberry lip balm on your lips, your forehead brushing hers when you move forward just a little, and you wonder just how many things you now have to admit you were wrong about.

(Or wilfully ignorant, which is much the same thing or worse.)

You lie there and watch Agatha Wellbelove sleep while you wait for your own eyes to get heavy and decide that this

(whatever this is)

(and usually you'd take it as a bad sign that you don't know, but not now)

most definitely isn't a bad thing about being Penelope Bunce.

And perhaps, admitting to a certain degree of error in your strategizing on occasion, isn't always a bad thing about being Penelope Bunce.

At all.

(Just don't tell that damn pixie.)

**Author's Note:**

> So, hope you enjoyed that! Leave a comment if you like it! :)


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